As a kid the Easter Bunny would always bring me a bow and arrow set, which by the end of the day had all the rubber suckers removed, the tips sharpened and the neighborhood cats on the run. My sisters got goofy hats that were worn just long enough for the family photo and then strangely disappeared. This oddness at home was amplified at church on Easter Sunday when the priest would wear gaudy robes, the altar boys were tense, and the sour throated choir ladies sang even longer and more painful hymns of little or no application.
Had it made one scrap of sense to me, had anyone bothered to bend down and explain it all rather than twist my ear to sit up straighter on the pew -- I might be a Catholic yet. Instead, I find myself wittling a tip on the end of a toy arrow, scanning the yard for cats and bunnies.